‘You could stay at the inn in the village.’
The look of panic that crossed her face momentarily piqued his interest, but he refused to be drawn in and quickly moved on.
‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Amelia.’
‘Well, Amelia, you can’t stay here.’ He tried to say the words softly, but they came out as a harsh bark, almost an order. He watched as she recoiled from him as though she’d been slapped and felt a flash of guilt at the despair that permeated every inch of her body.
Silence followed as Edward waited for her response. As the seconds ticked by he could see her entire body shaking. The blood had drained from her face and suddenly Edward realised her eyes had become unfocused. If he wasn’t much mistaken his intruder was close to collapsing.
With quick, purposeful strides Edward crossed the space between them, took hold of Amelia’s shoulders and lowered her into a chair. He told himself he didn’t want to have to deal with a head injury on top of everything else, but Edward knew his humanity was buried somewhere inside him and chose moments like this to rear up and make him act like a decent person. As he touched the bare skin of her arms he was surprised at just how cold they were. He was no medical man, but Edward could see if Amelia didn’t get warm and dry soon she would be in real danger of catching a chill, or worse. He remembered the time he and his late wife had got caught out in a storm on the edge of the estate—by the time they reached the house both were drenched to the bone, but whereas Edward had shaken the cold off Jane had been lain up with a fever for a week.
‘You can’t stay here,’ Edward repeated quietly, almost to himself. In reality he knew if he sent Amelia back out into the storm in this state then she probably would die.
With a growl of frustration Edward hurled a cushion from the sofa towards the fire. It smacked into the mantelpiece with a loud thud before falling to the floor. He didn’t want to be put in this position, held hostage by his own conscience. He wanted to return to bed in a house only he inhabited and not feel guilty about it.
Amelia looked at him with her large, dark eyes and Edward knew there was nothing else to be done.
‘One night,’ he said eventually. ‘You can stay for one night. But you leave first thing in the morning.’
The relief on Amelia’s face should have pleased him, years ago it would have. Edward could remember being the type of person that cared about others, that would go out of his way to help someone in distress, but that part of him seemed to have withered and died along with so many other characteristics. Once he had been kind and caring, but now all he could think about was how he didn’t want this young woman in his house.
‘What’s your name?’ Amelia asked, her voice not much more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Edward. Sir Edward Gray.’
‘Thank you, Edward.’
Next to him Amelia shuddered violently and Edward made a conscious effort to shift his full attention to her, pushing his own concerns to the back of his mind. A warm bed and a good night’s sleep would be all Amelia needed to recover. If he sacrificed a little of his treasured privacy now he could send her on her way tomorrow with a clear conscience.
‘We need to get you warm.’
Amelia looked at the paltry fire struggling to burn in the grate and shuffled a little nearer.
‘Properly warm,’ Edward said with meaning.
He hesitated for a few seconds. The last woman he’d touched was his wife, and she’d been dead for three long years. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d shaken someone’s hand or laid a hand on someone’s shoulder.
Quickly, before he could overthink things any further, he stood and carefully scooped Amelia into his arms. She let out a murmur of protest, but her heart wasn’t in it. Already Edward could see the cold was affecting her brain, slowing her thought processes and making her sluggish.
He carried her through the house, up the stairs and into the West Wing where he kept his rooms. After the fire three years ago Edward had closed up most of the house, choosing to live his half-existence in the comfortable rooms of the West Wing rather than venture into the grander family rooms. The West Wing was warm and cosy, he’d had a fire burning in his bedroom grate earlier that evening and the embers would still be glowing.
‘I feel so cold,’ Amelia whispered, her body shuddering in his arms.
‘You’ll warm up in no time,’ Edward said and for the first time in years he felt a sense of purpose. He would not let this young woman die. Even though he didn’t know her or what she’d done he would offer her a warm bed and a safe place to rest.
Edward kicked open the door to his bedroom and set Amelia down in his armchair, pulling the heavy seat closer to the fire. He wondered if he had done enough now. With a glance at the door he weighed up his options: he could either leave Amelia here to fend for herself and retreat to the safety of the rest of the deserted house, or he could ensure she would not die from the cold in what remained of the night.
Now she was up here in his bedroom Edward had to suppress the trepidation that was creeping through his entire body. He had shut himself away from the world to avoid exactly these sort of interactions. After the fire he hadn’t wanted anyone to venture into the house, into the space he had shared with his family. This was their private domain and he had tried to keep the memories alive by not allowing anyone else in.
Tonight, with Amelia shivering in the armchair his late wife used to sit in, Edward felt as though he’d already somehow desecrated those memories.
‘You need to get out of those wet clothes,’ Edward barked, knowing he was taking his displeasure out on Amelia, but unable to temper his tone. As he spoke they both glanced down to the almost-transparent chemise and Amelia shifted in embarrassment.
‘I’ll give you a nightshirt to wear. It’ll be far too big, but at least it will be warm and dry.’
Edward crossed to his chest of drawers and selected a nightshirt, shaking out the creases as he returned to Amelia’s side. Living alone, with no servants to surprise, Edward normally slept naked, but he had a nightshirt from the days the house had been bustling and full of life.
In the chair Amelia hadn’t moved and Edward had to pause before he could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
‘Will you be able to undress yourself?’ Edward asked.
The image of him having to peel the wet chemise from her body, lifting it inch by inch to reveal the silky skin underneath, had imprinted itself in Edward’s brain. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and rallied. He had been without a woman’s touch for a long time, but that was no excuse for the entirely inappropriate thought.
He didn’t wait for her reply, instead throwing the nightshirt down on the empty armchair by the fire and striding out of the room.
Once outside Edward rested his forehead against the cool stone wall and tried to quash the contempt he was feeling towards himself. For three years he had consoled himself by promising to always remain true to his late wife, and the first time he was tested, the first time a pretty young woman stepped into his world, he allowed his imagination to run wild.
He waited a few minutes, then knocked on the door. When he didn’t get a reply he hesitated before opening the door and stepping back into the room.
Amelia had managed to finish undressing herself and don the nightshirt Edward had found for her. The bloodstained chemise was hanging over a chair. Now it wasn’t plastered to her body Edward could see just how much blood there was.
‘What happened?’ he asked sharply, pointing at the bloodstains.
Amelia